


Daemons, Part One -- Star Trek

by NeverAndAlways



Series: Daemons [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAndAlways/pseuds/NeverAndAlways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles/ficlets/one-shot daemon AU's. This one is Star Trek; I'll be posting the others seperately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captain Picard

When Captain Picard returned from his time aboard a Borg vessel, he was unconscious for weeks at a time. Even with Dr. Crusher's knowledge and expertise, recovery was slow. The Borg implants were removed one by one until he was whole again- physically whole, that is.

He was alone. His sleek, stern little foxhound was no longer at his side. Although he could sometimes sense her presence, she was nowhere to be seen, and that was just as distressing as anything the Borg could have done to him. It was like suddenly missing an arm or a leg - everything was thrown off-kilter. Many times he would reach out to touch her and find nothing, or go to ask her advice and find silence. Data was fascinated by this predicament; as an android with no daemon of his own, he wanted to know everything about being a human in the same situation. Dr. Crusher could offer no answers. Counselor Troi was similarly puzzled. Her empathic abilities didn't help - there seemed to be no daemon to sense. In the end, the Captain resigned himself to it. There was nothing to be done.

Then came a mission briefing some months later. He was in the middle of dividing his crew into teams when Riker's daemon, Corinna, stood up abruptly and shouted. Riker reached down to silence her, but she batted him away. "Look!"

Everyone followed her gaze to the Captain's side: there, faint but discernible, was a cloud of shimmering golden Dust. They stared. Captain Picard knelt down to eye-level with it.

"Camille...?"

There was no answer. He hadn't really expected one. He reached a cautious hand toward the cloud; it passed right through. His hand tingled, and he absently rubbed his fingers together as he stood up. "Counselor?"

Counselor Troi looked just as startled as he was. Her daemon, currently in the form of a scops owl, bristled on her shoulder. "It's her, Captain," he said in his deep voice. "We can both sense it. That's Camille."

-

So now the Captain of the Federation's flagship was walking around with a cloud of Dust by his side. It never spoke or even showed any sign of sentience, but he was comforted by it all the same. Better to be this than a man with no daemon. And the cloud, whatever it may be, was interesting; it seemed to react to his moods, glowing brighter and more dense when he was in good spirits, or thin and faint when he was sad. Dr. Crusher scanned, poked, and prodded, did everything but dissect it. Still she could offer no explanation. Neither could he, but he wasn't really looking for one. Not anymore. It had been seven months, almost eight; he was more or less used to Camille's absence.

So, as you might expect, it was bit of a shock when he awoke one morning nose-to-muzzle with a very furry face. He closed his eyes, opened them again. It was still there. He sat up. Sure enough, there on the pillow next to him was the sleek brown-and-white shape of a foxhound, with only the faintest halo of Dust around her. She stretched luxuriously.

"Good morning, Jean-Luc. We certainly slept well." she said with a yawn. 

"Why are you here?" he reached out one hand, but didn't quite dare to touch. Camille gave a whiskery chuckle, and he felt her gentle amusement through their bond.

"I'm always here, pup." she stood up, shook, and regarded him sternly. "Is something wrong?"

"It's been eight months, Camille. You have been gone for eight months. Absent, invisible. As far as Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi could tell, you no longer existed."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" suddenly Camille reared up and planted her front paws on his chest. "I'm as real as you, Jean-Luc." she said, a little quieter, and that's when he saw it: a single star-shaped implant on her temple. He touched it without thinking. It was cold metal, real as anything else, but somehow he knew not to worry. It wasn't dangerous. His hands moved to her ears, down the coarse fur of her neck, and back up. It's her- his Camille. He brought their foreheads together.

And said nothing further. Some things don't need to be said.

~ ★★★ ~ 


	2. Riker

Will Riker is lost. He's been walking around the Utopia Planitia shipyard for an hour now, trying to get onto the Enterprise. With absolutely no luck. He's supposed to report to the Captain; how would it look if he was late on his very first day?

"Isn't there a door somewhere?" he grumbles as he passes the same room for the fifth time. His daemon, a dust-gray mountain lion, flicks her long tail at him.

"Be patient, Will. We'll find it." they turn a corner onto a window-lined hallway; she juts her whiskery chin toward a young woman. "Maybe she could help."

Might as well. Will turns on his best smile as they approach. "Excuse me, miss-" the woman turns to face him, and...wow. All his words leave him. She's gorgeous. Her hair falls in a cascade of black curls down her back, her eyes are big and dark - Betazoid eyes - and her lips are a graceful curve...his daemon bats his ankle with one paw.

"William. Don't stare."

He startles back to attention. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me...I can't seem to get to the Enterprise. Do you know where I might get onboard?"

The woman laughs gently. "Of course, I'll show you. Follow me." her voice is surprisingly deep, but melodic. She walks a few paces, then half-turns. "I'm Deanna Troi, by the way. Ship's counselor." a tiny gray lizard scuttles up her arm to become a sugar-glider - Betazoid daemons never settle - which peers at him with huge black eyes. "This is Almas."

Riker just barely remembers himself to say, "It's a pleasure to meet you both. I'm Will Riker; this is Corinna." his daemon inclines her head respectfully, but her emotions are something closer to amusement. He wonders why.

-

As it turns out, he's been close to ship the whole time: it takes all of five minutes for Counselor Troi to lead him to the loading dock. He covers his embarrassment with another smile. "Thank you both for your help. I need to report to the Captain, but it sounds as though we'll be seeing each other again?"

"It does indeed." Counselor Troi flashes him another smile. Then she bids him good evening and turns to leave. But before she walks away, Will glances down to where their daemons are standing together. Almas is in the form of a bobcat and standing face-to face with Corinna; she seems to be whispering something to him. They exchange smiles before he turns into a sparrow and flutters onto Troi's shoulder. Riker watches her walk away until she vanishes into the crowd. Then he turns to Corinna.

"Alright, what was that about?"

She blinks innocently up at him. "What?"

"You, you big housecat." he playfully flicks her ear. "What were you whispering about?"

Corinna just smiles a cat-smile and looks away. "You'll see."

=   ***   =


	3. Dr. Crusher

"You miss him."

Beverly Crusher looks up from her work. Her orange-and-white tomcat daemon gazes back. "What was that?" she's a little distracted, with so much to do.

"I said, you miss him." the cat swishes his tail languidly. Beverly half-smiles and turns back to her computer screen.

"I suppose. Jean-Luc is a handful at the best of times, but he's a good Captain, and-"

"Bev."

"Ari." she mimics his tone. He pads across the desk and jumps lightly up on top of her computer.

"That's not who I meant, Bev." Beverly's gaze lands on a small picture frame next to her computer; it holds a holo-image of herself, with a smiling little boy in her arms. Ari follows her gaze. "It's okay to miss him, you know."

"I know." Beverly sighs. "But Wesley's seventeen years old, he's not a child anymore. He can take care of himself. And he has Jean-Luc and Deanna to keep an eye on him."

"He's still our baby. We still miss him." Ari blinks slowly. "Remember who you're talking to, Bev. The bond goes both ways."

Beverly hesitates a moment, then lifts her daemon down from the computer and holds him close. He tucks his head under her chin and starts to purr, and for a moment they stay like that, savoring it. Eventually he stops purring long enough to say, "I want you to call him when you're done here."

"He'll still be at school."

"Then you can send him a subspace message. He may be seventeen, but you're still his mother. I bet you anything he and Zita miss us just as much as we miss them."

Beverly smiles into Ari's fur. "Alright, you've made your point." she releases her hold on him, and he jumps back onto the desk. "How'd you get to be such a philosopher?"

"With the amount of time you spend working, there's not much else to do." Ari gives her a cheeky smile and gets a playful swat on the flank for it.

"Then stop pestering me so I can finish my work!" Beverly laughs as he darts away. He sits down just out of reach and curls his tail around his paws.

"I love you too."

oOo


	4. Guinan

Those who know Guinan, know her as the calm, thoughtful heart of the Enterprise. She's always in Ten-Forward, and since much of the Enterprise's crew passes through there, she knows the ship's comings and goings just as well as the Captain - if not better.

Those who know Guinan, know Bolormaa as well. Bolormaa is her daemon, a seven-foot-long El-Aurian sea python. Like Guinan, she's extremely perceptive; unlike Guinan, she prefers to just watch the world go by. This makes her perfect for watching the bar when Guinan is elsewhere (their bond has stretched quite a long way over so many hundreds of years). Just the sight of her, curled up on the counter or draped over a bar stool, is enough to deter some people - but more often than not, they find that those are people they don't want in the bar anyway.

When she's not scaring potential customers, Bolormaa stays very close to Guinan. Guinan makes her rounds of Ten-Forward - refilling a drink here, giving a smile or a kind word there - and Bolormaa goes with her, slithering along the floor or draped around her neck. They make a good team; Bolormaa is the eyes, Guinan is the ears.

Bolormaa herself rarely speaks. She's Guinan's shy side, and her voice is soft enough that it's hard to hear over the chatter of Ten-Forward. The only person she's been known to talk to (besides Guinan) is the Captain. It's not uncommon for him to visit Ten-Forward now and then, and when he does, the four of them talk for hours. It's a testament to their friendship how easily they and their daemons interact. Camille's been known to even curl up in the snake's coils while they chat (as you might expect, this led to a lot of gossip at first. Captain Picard made sure that didn't last long). No one really knows what they talk about; no one's brave enough to eavesdrop. But then, most things about Guinan are a mystery...and she likes to keep it that way.

oOo


	5. Counselor Troi

Betazoid daemons never settle. There are many opinions on this matter: some see it as unnatural, a sign that Betazoids are not to be trusted. Others believe it's a testament to their lively, sensual nature. Whatever the reason, it sure keeps you on your toes.

Deanna Troi has never been quite comfortable with it. She's half-human; shouldn't that mean something? But Almas, in true Betazed tradition, has never shown any desire to settle. The only constant thing about him - maybe the only human thing - is his color. Whatever shape he takes is always a deep, steely gray. Whereas her mother's daemon, Homn, is always something flashy and colorful (his favorite shape is that of a Terran animal, the bird-of-paradise), hers is...well, boring. Austere, even. Perfect for a counselor. That's not to say she doesn't love him - of course she does, how can she not? But she's gotten used to sensing excitement from people who learn she's a Betazoid, then vague disappointment as soon as they lay eyes on drab little Almas. He's learned to accept it, though, just as she has.

Almas is just as much of a counselor as Deanna herself. He has empathic abilities, too, but attuned to daemons rather than people. So they literally work with all aspects of their patients: Deanna with the person, Almas with the daemon. Sometimes daemons say things their humans won't. But having someone else's daemon talk directly to yours can be unnerving at first, so Almas will often mirror the shape of whatever daemon he's faced with. A hornbill for a hornbill, a porcupine for a porcupine, a toucan for Barclay's daemon Annabel. They still don't know why it works. But it does; Almas' deep voice has helped bring many a patient back to themselves.

There's only one person they've never quite been able to read: Will Riker. He's been a mystery as long as they've known him. Maybe that's part of the appeal. With most people, they know everything at the first 'hello', but Riker and Corinna don't wear their mind on their sleeves. It's refreshing (and it doesn't hurt that he's handsome, too).

Deanna has never seen Almas more smug than when they met Will, that day he wandering lost around the spacedock. Sure, he was polite and charming and such, but that was as far as it went. She had showed him to the Enterprise loading dock and they'd parted ways, and that was that. Or so she thought. Almas took his time saying goodbye; when at last he fluttered to her shoulder as a little gray sparrow, there was smugness coming off him in waves.

"I know something you don't." he preened.

"And what would that be, Imzadi?" the Betazoid word for 'beloved'.

Almas stretched, lengthened, and became a genet. "You like him. Quite a lot, in fact."

"Do I?" she said, feigning surprise. "And what makes you say that?"

"Don't play that game with me, Dee." Almas mock-scolded. He batted her cheek with a paw, claws sheathed.

"Well, maybe I do, and maybe I don't." she wasn't sure, herself. She hadn't even been aware of it until Almas brought it up.

"You **do**. I can **smell** it on you." he snuffled loudly in her ear to illustrate his point. That got her; she yelped, and clapped a hand over her mouth to hide a flood of giggles.

"Stop that, I'm supposed to be a professional!" she said once she could talk again. She reached back, plucked up her daemon, and cradled him to her shoulder. "You are **trouble**."

"I know." Almas curled his long, barred tail around her arm. They'd arrived at their destination: the Captain's ready-room. Deanna took a deep breath, suddenly nervous. "One more thing," whispered Almas. "You should ask him to dinner tonight."

"The Captain??"

"No, the Man in the Moon. Riker!"

Deanna shook her head. Of course, not the Captain. "I'll think about it."

"You bet you will."

"But right now..." Deanna sighed. "It's time to be a professional." she lifted Almas back to his previous perch; he shrank down into a screech owl, small and demure. And with one last nervous glance, they stepped through the ready-room door into their new life.

oOo


	6. Worf

Worf is a proud Klingon. He has good reason to be: he comes from a strong and prosperous House, he's a good warrior, and he's the Chief Security Officer of the Federation's flagship. Anyone should be proud to carry those titles.

And yet there's one thing that always makes him wonder. His daemon. Most Klingons' daemons take the form of something large and powerful: a sabre-bear, a tusk cat, a wolf. They tend to settle early, much earlier than humans', and some choose their own names. His did not. She kept the name his parents' daemons gave her and didn't settle until he was nearly fourteen, well past the Age of Ascension. And - perhaps the biggest disappointment of all - she settled as a Terran animal. This has never sat well with either of them. Granted, she can be a formidable creature, and her temper is truly Klingon. But for a Klingon warrior to have a daemon so small and soft is truly humiliating.

That's what comes of growing up among humans.

\--

"What is she?"

Worf and Counselor Troi walk side-by-side on their way to Ten-Forward. There's an impromptu gathering being held to celebrate the end of the Enterprise's latest mission. Worf would rather not attend - he's never seen the point of these human gatherings - but somehow Troi convinced him. He looks at her askance; her daemon (currently in the shape of a large, stately bird) peers back. His own daemon is draped lazily across his shoulders. He can sense her beady black eyes fixed on him.

"I've never seen a Klingon with a daemon like yours." the Counselor continues. With anyone else this topic would be uncomfortable and even insulting, but she has a way of putting people at ease. Worf sighs. This is a question he's heard many times.

"As you know, I was adopted and raised by human parents. Kreyr learned to take the form of many Terran animals."

"But you have such a strong connection to your homeworld, I thought she would have settled as a Klingon animal."

"As did I." they round a corner, nearly colliding with a startled ensign and his cheetah daemon, who swerve out of the way. "Kreyr is a honey badger." he says at last.

"That's very interesting." says Troi in her best Ship's Counselor voice.

Kreyr suddenly speaks up. "Most people find it uncomfortable, being around someone with such an unusual daemon." she says in her raspy voice, stressing the 'unusual'. She's trying to provoke a response; Worf shoots her a warning look.

"Not at all." Almas answers her before Troi can. "People with toucan daemons are nearly always extroverted and talkative, and yet Lieutenant Barclay - the least extroverted man on this ship - has a toucan for a daemon. Ensign Parsons' daemon is a tarsier, and she's the least observant person we have ever met. And Lieutenant-"

"Almas." Troi warns gently. He clacks his bill shut. Worf looks down at Kreyr. She's watching with barely-concealed amusement. "The point Almas was trying to make," says Troi, "is that we have seen daemons far more 'unusual' than yours." something close to disappointment filters through Worf's link with Kreyr. Troi flashes them a smile. "Actually, I think she's perfect for you. Honey badgers are known as one of Earth's most ferocious animals." Kreyr's emotions change to a flush of pride as the group reaches Ten-Forward.

Guinan's daemon, Bolormaa, is draped over a potted plant by the door. She greets them with a nod and a slow reptilian smile as they enter. Worf nods in return, but he can feel Kreyr's revulsion like a bad taste. Troi and Almas meet up with Commander Riker and his daemon; they retreat to a corner table, leaving Worf alone in the crowd. He looks around. Commander LaForge's daemon, Layla, flutters past, and Wesley and Zita are talking animatedly over a padd...no one seems to notice him. Good. He sits down at the bar, and Kreyr slips from his shoulders onto the counter. He absently trails his fingers through her fur.

"Do you think she meant it?" she murmurs.

"Whom?"

"The Counselor." Kreyr snaps half-heartedly at his fingers. "She said I'm perfect for you."

Worf shrugs. "You are my qa'. It does not matter whether you are perfect or imperfect."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Kreyr moves just out of reach and regards him with shrewd eyes.

"What did you mean?"

A prickle of annoyance filters through their link. "Look at me, Worf. Look at us. We're Klingon, and yet I look like some child's toy. Remember when I settled? We were expecting me to be a targ, or a sabre-bear, and I turned into this instead." Kreyr gestures with her claws. She certainly doesn't look very Klingon at first glance, with her long tail and smooth black-and-white coat. Worf remembers; his mother was so happy when Kreyr settled. Her own daemon - a ptarmigan - had taken it upon himself to tell everyone in the family. And Worf and Kreyr could barely look each other in the eye, they were so disappointed. They've grown used to it over the years, of course. A daemon is a daemon no matter what shape it takes. But sometimes he wonders.

"P'tagh! Are you even listening to me?" sharp teeth on his wrist bring him back to reality. Kreyr releases her hold to glare at him.

Worf massages his wrist and glares right back. "Kreyr..." he hesitates. "You are not a targ, and you are not a sabre-bear, any more than I am. We are what we are, and we must accept it. If that makes us unusual, so be it." his daemon opens her mouth to argue. He silences her with a look. "No. Counselor Troi brought us here to enjoy the party, not to argue. We will talk more later."

Kreyr has plenty more to say. She almost does, too. But Guinan arrives moments later with two glasses of prune juice, and well...it can wait.

oOo


	7. Geordi

It's 0200. The warp core hums drowsily; consoles chatter and beep to themselves. Engineering is empty...save for one person.

Geordi swears under his breath as the computer squawks at him. "Come on, don't do this to me. You were working fine a minute ago, what's wrong?"

"DIRECTION UNCLEAR. PLEASE REPEAT REQUEST."

"Oh, never mind..." his fingers fly across the control panel with a succession of beeps and chirps. "Computer, what's the status of plasma injector one?"

A trill this time - the computer's thinking sound. "PLASMA INJECTOR ONE IS OPERATING AT NINETY-THREE POINT ONE PERCENT EFFICIENCY."

"Hm. That's what I thought." Geordi stands up, stretches, and looks around. "Layla? Where are you?"

"Here." a shadow unfolds itself from the ceiling and flutters down to land on his arm. It's a bat; her ears are almost comically large next to her tiny brown body. She twitches them at Geordi. "What's up?"

"Plasma manifold's a little off; wanna give me a hand with it?"

"If I say yes, can we go to bed afterward?"

Geordi sighs. "Don't start."

"Geordi, it's 0200. Your shift ended four hours ago. You haven't eaten since yesterday, and we haven't slept either."

"I know, I know. But we have to be at Starbase 178 by tomorrow, and we won't be if the warp drive's at 93%. The Captain-"

"-will understand. You're not the only person running this ship, you know." Layla hooks her thumb-claws into Geordi's uniform and pulls herself up to his shoulder. "What if you found, say, Ensign Parsons up and working at 0200?"

"I'd be amazed, because she never shows up on-time for her regular shifts."

"Geordi...!"

"I get what you're trying to say, Layla. I do." Geordi picks up a hyperspanner and a few other tools and ambles over to the warp core. "But I need to finish this, okay?"

His daemon twitches her ears again and concedes. "Fine. But if you sleep through your alarm again, don't blame me."

 

oOo


	8. Lwaxana Troi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed.)

"Do we really have to wear this every time she visits? Seems an awful lot of fuss for one person..."

Camille backs herself slowly across the Captain's quarters, trying to fuss with her outfit. The senior staff's dress uniforms even extend to their daemons; each has an elaborate sash made to fit them specifically, bearing medals and pips to show rank. Captain Picard enters, adjusting his own uniform - which really is a dress, it even has tights - and sighs.

"I agree, but those are the rules. And she **is** an ambassador."

Camille shakes her head, broadcasting irritation on every bandwidth. "We don't even like her."

"We don't have to like her." the Captain fastens his pips to his collar. "But we **do** have to be polite."

Camille gives one last shake, and together they pad out the door to the transporter room.

\--

Homn comes through first. He always does. They see him even before he materializes: wings half-spread, tail fanned out, as full of dramatic flair as Lwaxana herself. He really is a mirror image of her. The moment the cycle is done and he's solid, he bows with a great flourish and flutters off the transporter pad. He lands directly in front of Camille. She stands her ground, but her discomfort is obvious.

"Welcome aboard."

"Camille, darling," Homn practically purrs, "you got dressed up just for us? How nice!" he swishes his long tail.

"Hello, Homn." Deanna and Almas say almost in unison. He turns his attention to them.

"Hello, little one! Almas, dear, I'm surprised to see you in such a small form...!"

"Now now, Homn, don't harass them." Lwaxana herself sweeps off the transporter pad. She pauses long enough to collect her daemon and shoot Captain Picard a sly look. "Why Jean-Luc, such thoughts! And I've only just arrived." then she crouches down to Camille's level. "And Camille, how **are** you?" almost everyone in the room, human and daemon alike, cringes as she reaches for her.

"Mother..." Deanna sighs. Lwaxana looks up; a silent conversation passes between them. She stands up, looking as close to embarrassed as they've ever seen her - which isn't very close at all.

"I know, little one, I'm sorry. I forget how protective humans are of their daemons..." her hand goes up to stroke Homn's feathers as she speaks. There are a few moments of awkward silence. Then Riker steps up.

"If you're ready, Mrs. Troi, I'd be happy to show you to the ready room." he extends his arm and Lwaxana purrs her thanks. Another silent conversation passes between her and her daughter as she sweeps out of the room: Deanna rolls her eyes.

This is going to be a long visit.

oOo


	9. Captain Janeway

"Kathryn. Kathryn, come on, I know you can hear me."

Captain Janeway is slumped over the desk in her quarters, head in her arms and snoring softly. A handful of padds lay strewn around her. And standing over her, back feet firmly planted in the thin carpet, is her daemon. He's an Irish setter; even on all fours he can almost reach the buttons on a control panel, so he really does stand over her. He paws her arm.

"Kathy!"

She shifts, turns her head...and snores on. Her daemon sighs.

"And you said you weren't tired..." he drops onto all fours. Of all the embarrassing things...he takes a deep breath and lets out a single loud, booming bark. It works beautifully: the Captain sits bolt upright and looks around, one hand reaching for the nonexistent phaser at her belt. Then reality catches up to her. She sags.

"Kian..." Kathryn drags a hand over her eyes.

"Good morning." her daemon swishes his plumed tail once, twice.

"Is it? Computer, what time-"

"No, it isn't. It's 000 hours, Kathryn."

"...Oh."

"We need to sleep."

She stifles a yawn. "Pretty sure I was..."

"In a  **bed**." Kian noses her elbow. "Come on."

Kathryn smirks, but does as she's told. Various joints creak and pop and she stands up. "You could have just let me sleep there, you know."

"I could have. I didn't."

Now she really smiles. "What would I do without you, my dear?"

Kian smiles back through his whiskers. "Let's not find out."


	10. Tuvok

Tuvok's daemon is a sphinx cat - or at least the Vulcan approximation of one. Her name is T'ris. With webbed paws and sparsely-furred, blue-white skin, she's as elegant as Tuvok is aloof. In the corridors she strides along beside him, tail in the air; at Ops she perches on his shoulder, the better to keep an eye on the Bridge. She doesn't often speak. When she does, it's with a voice that sounds like it should belong to someone much, much older.

"Mister Kim."

Harry's dark eyes widen. Etta tucks her head into her shell. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

T'ris blinks slowly, her slitted eyes both Vulcan and feline. "Need we remind you, Ensign, the Bridge is not a social gathering. Whatever you have to say to Mister Paris can wait until your shift has ended."

Harry says his apologies and turns away, but Tom's daemon lifts his head from his paws. "Leave the kid alone," he drawls. "there's nothing out there. And even if there was, Harry knows how to do his job."

"That is not the point. There is nothing at the moment, but that is no reason to relax your guard."

"Or maybe you're just uptight-"

"Em." says Tom quietly, placing his hand on the scruff of his daemon's neck. Just a warning.

"...Sorry." Emyr lays back down. The Bridge lapes into silence, but Harry spends the rest of his shift feeling T'ris' eyes on him.

\--

"...She's always doing it!"

"But she was right, Tom."

Tom steps smoothly in front of his friend, so fast they nearly collide. He puts his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Harry." he says.

"Tom." Harry echoes, arching an eyebrow.

"I'm your friend, aren't I?"

"...Yeah?" Harry doesn't think he likes where this is going.

"And friends stand up for each other, right?"

"Right."

"So I'm gonna go to Tuvok, and I'm gonna ask him and T'ris to cut you some slack." then Tom turns and strides away with Emyr wagging behind him. Harry does entertain the idea for a moment...it would be nice to have T'ris off his back. But then he follows the thought a little further, and the sudden realization makes him run to catch up with his friend.

"Wait, Tom." Etta speaks first, poking her scaly head out of his pocket. Tom and Emyr turn around. "Please don't."

"Why not?" he seems genuinely confused.

"We appreciate it, really-"

"But?"

"But if you talk to Tuvok about it, he'll know that he's gotten under our skin. And that'll mean he's won."

Before Tom or Emyr can respond, who should come around the corner but Tuvok himself. He nods respectfully as he passes. But T'ris, padding along at his heels, shoots Harry a glance that even Tom can't miss. Haughty, a little disdainful, and very very cold. They sweep past the pair. Just before they turn the corner, Tom looks to his friend and then darts away.

"Tuvok! Tuvok, wait up!"

Harry sighs. He and Etta exchange a dubious shrug and continue on their way. This is gonna be a long trip.

 

☆☆☆


	11. Tom Paris

Embarrassment. Degenerate. Disappointment.

Hearing those words on repeat for so many years, he's almost started to believe them...the first Paris man in generations to have a same-sex daemon. His Emyr. An ancient Earth breed, a Carolina dog, tawny golden-brown from his tail to his ears and even his eyes. Oh, Dad was so disappointed when he settled. "Another failure," he'd said. Tom couldn't have cared less about that. Finally, here was something about him his dad couldn't change, couldn't force into the shape of what he thinks it should be. He and Emyr got into as much trouble as one teenager and his daemon possibly could. If it annoyed Dad, so much the better.

Then came Starfleet Academy. His dad's influence followed him, just like it always had. People knew him as a liar and a coward before the first class. He was always 'that guy with the weird daemon' (c'mon, people, this the 24th century. Shouldn't we be past things like that?).

So he ran. He and Emyr ran their way through the Academy, out the other end and into a penal colony...and right onto Voyager.

-

In a corner of the Mess Hall, tucked into a chair with his nose in a padd, Lieutenant Tom Paris picks at his food. Emyr sits at his feet, people-watching. Today's lunch is Ktarian stew, courtesy of Ensign Wildman. She brought the recipe with her; he rather wishes she hadn't. He pokes it with his spoon, and something tentacle-y floats to the top. There goes his appetite. He nudges the bowl away and focuses on his work instead. Three weeks in the Delta Quadrant and he's already thinking longingly of Academy cafeteria food...

Suddenly Emyr nudges his ankle. "Tom, we've got company."

Tom looks up just as Harry Kim approaches the table, bearing his own bowl of stew and a nervous smile. His Etta chugs along behind him. "Mind if we sit here?" he asks shyly.

"Not at all." Tom scoots his things aside. "Come to join the freak show?"

Harry sits down and hoists Etta onto the table. "I wish you'd stop calling yourself that." he nods to the daemon at Tom's feet. "Hi Emyr."

Emyr flips his tail, almost cat-like. "Hey."

"It was a joke, Harry, lighten up." Tom smirks, but he only sort of means it. He watches as Harry picks up a spoon and eyes his bowl of stew. "I'd be careful if I were you. That stuff means business." Harry quirks an eyebrow. Then Tom points to his own bowl, with its tentacles still afloat. Harry stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth and pushes the bowl away. They can go without lunch.

"So." Harry says to the silence that follows.

"So?"

"I've...heard some of the crew talking about you since we came onboard."

"Oh yeah? What do they say?" ten credits he knows what it's gonna be.

Harry takes a look around. "They say you're a coward, and that you can't be trusted. Some of the Maquis even said you're mentally ill. Because, uh..." he trails off.

"Because of Em?"

"...Yeah."

Tom sighs inwardly. Spot-on. "Y'know, if I had a credit for every time I heard that..."

"Does that mean they're right?"

"A few years ago, yeah. They would've been."

"What about now?"

"What d'you think?"

Harry looks him up and down, slow and considering.

"I think they're wrong."

 

~~   ☆☆☆  ~~


	12. The Doctor

"'You are my sunshine-'"

"You are my sunshiiine-"

"Almost, try it again."

"Youu are my sunshiiiine-"

"No, not quite there. It's a G-natural, you're still doing a G-sharp."

"Well, pardon me for not having your natural talent, Doctor..."

"That's alright, it'll come to you in time. Just try again."

"You are my-"

"'Morning, Doc." Tom walks into Sickbay. Almost late for his shift- again. He walks straight to his console, boots it up, and begins sifting through the day's files. Then it dawns on him. He looks up and over at the EMH's office. "Is there someone else in here?"

The EMH gives him his best deer-in-the-headlights look. "Of course not."

"Then who was singing when I came in just now?"

The doctor opens his mouth to answer, and is interrupted by something black and feathery fluttering onto his wrist. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Doctor." it says. Then it turns around. "It was me."

Tom stares. "Doc, what is that?"

" **She** is my daemon." says the doctor, a little conceitedly. "Her name is Clementine." he strokes her feathers as he talks. The creature - Clementine - looks on with exactly the same expression. She's a bird of some kind, almost the same size as Chakotay's daemon. Glossy black, with an orange beak and legs and a swoop of yellow behind each eye. And almost certainly just as snooty as the doctor.

"Didn't you already have a daemon?" Emyr pipes up.

"Not like you." the doctor replies. "I've been doing some research, and I found that all Starfleet Emergency Medical Holograms are programmed with a daemon subroutine - to make their patients more comfortable, I assume. But all EMH programs have the exact same subroutine: a fieldmouse. Living among Voyager's crew, seeing the diversity of your daemons, I couldn't bear to think that I was the only one without a real daemon."

Tom can almost feel Emyr rolling his eyes. The doctor is just a constant stream of purple prose sometimes. "That's great and all, Doc, but...don't you think it's a little weird to just rewrite her like that? I mean, everyone knows you don't get to choose your daemon."

"But I didn't rewrite her. The daemon I came with was only a scattering of photons, programmed to follow me around. It wasn't even interactive." Clementine ruffles her feathers. "So I simply added to her program. Made her look the way I always imagined her." Emyr and Tom exchange uneasy looks. This still doesn't feel right. The doctor seems to notice; he heaves a sigh. "Don't think of it as rewriting, then. Think of it as...as Settling."

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts, Mister Paris." Clementine interjects. "You're already late for your shift. There will be time for questions later."

Tom obediently gets to work, but keeps an eye on both the doctor and Clementine for the rest of the day. He'll be talking to the Captain about this.


	13. Seven of Nine

"Alright, what do you think?"

Seven looks at her daemon, coiled around the edge of her computer panel in the form of a large snake. Steely-gray scales, beady brown eyes. A black mamba. She returns to her work.

"Species Dendroaspis polylepis. Aesthetically pleasing, but extremely venomous to humanoids. The crew may find its presence unnerving."

"Yeah, I didn't think so either..."

A pause. She feels him shift again. A bird this time; small and gray, hooked beak, black stripe over the eyes and wings. He ruffles his feathers.

"Loggerhead shrike, species Lanius ludovicianus. Carnivorous; known for impaling its prey on sharp objects."

"...No, huh?"

"Perhaps not."

Another shift. Seven picks up a fallen data padd from the floor. "It has been three months since you manifested. According to calculations, Voyager will be in the Delta Quadrant for nearly 80 years, which is well beyond the expected remaining lifespan of much of the crew - myself included. You have ample time in which to Settle."

"Well, we've always been a little different." says her daemon. She casts a glance at him. Mammalian now; small, with dense black-and-white striped fur, a long tail, and large black eyes. Sugar glider, species Petaurus breviceps. A form many humans would describe as...cute. Seven frowns.

"Certainly not."

Her daemon laughs - something he only does when they're alone. "Kidding, kidding. I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Seven returns to her work while her daemon cycles through different forms. Some he tries out for a minute or more, moving around the cargo bay to see how it feels - a gecko, a cat, a lizard - others he flips through like a catalog. Orb weaver, hawk, panther, dog, moth, antelope -

"Oh."

Their eyes meet. They both know: this is it. This form is avian, and larger than the others; jet-black, with a long, decurved beak and shaggy feathers. "Species Corvus corax." says Seven.

"I prefer Aatos, usually." he preens. One beady eye looks up at her. "What, no commentary?"

Seven reaches out to stroke his wing. It's soft to the touch, and her Borg side goes spinning away into analyses of avian feather structure, retrices and barbs and quills. Her human side very nearly smiles.

"It is sufficent."

Aatos nips at her fingers. "Glad you approve."

 

★★★ 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story so far, please leave a comment- I'd love to hear from you!


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